Snape Speaks
by carefreewritergirl
Summary: For the first time in seven years Slytherin had lost the House Cup, and Snape was angry...with Dumbledore, with Harry, and most of all, with a certain cocky black-haired boy from his past... (Snape's POV at the End of Year Feast in "Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone.")


**Snape Speaks**

 _By carefreewritergirl_

~Writen in honor of Alan Rickman's recent death~

 **S** nape made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. He had been held up by fussing about grading some late assignments, so the Great Hall was already full. Snape surveyed it with satisfaction. His irritation with irresponsible students faded away as silver and green bombarded his senses from every direction, and a hint of a smile curved his thin lips. He took his customary seat at the teacher's table. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Professor McGonagall's tense posture, her arms folded tight across her chest. As he sat down she involuntarily recoiled from him. His good mood increased, and an actual smile forced its way out of his stubborn lips as Dumbledore, his white beard gleaming and starry robe glittering in the candlelight, strode past and assumed his position in the center of the stage. A split second later the ubiquitous din had died away and utter silence had replaced it.

 _The children have had reverence of Dumbledore instilled in them since childhood,_ Snape thought resentfully. _They grew up being put to sleep with fables about the wizard whom even the Dark Lord fears. That wretched man does not deserve their awe._ All the same, a certain grudging respect gripped his heart as he gazed at the Headmaster. The man may have acted wretchedly in the past, but no more so than Snape himself. Still, though, he wasn't going to let his respect for Albus Dumbledore stop him from enjoying the humiliation the headmaster would have to endure this evening in the wake of Slytherin's absolute and commanding triumph over Gryffindor.

He half-listened to Dumbledore read out the points, and noted with pleasure when the poor old man wavered a bit when reading out Slytherin's total. He watched the Slytherins exult in their victory and couldn't suppress a twinge of regret and jealousy: In his seven years at Hogwarts, Slytherin had never won the House Cup. They had come close - oh, yes, they had come _very_ close. If they had done better at Quidditch they would have won, but they had never done as well as they would have liked in those years, largely because of -

 _NO._ He could not think about that now. _No, no, no._ Unbidden, an image from the past rose in his mind's eye: That of a gloating, black-haired boy, holding a golden trophy in a vise-like grip over his head, his mouth open in a crow of victory, exultant.

Raising his tortured eyes from his lap, a thrill ran through his blood as he was unwelcomingly confronted with the boy from his memories. However, this boy was cowering. His posture was slumped, and his eyes behind his glasses were empty and depressed. Snape's mood improved slightly and he came back to himself in time to hear Dumbledore cough, "Ahem."

Snape sat bolt upright. The cough was fake. He could tell that immediately. It was caused out of nervousness, sheer self-consciousness...and something else. _Shame. Guilt._ Snape suddenly felt foreboding creep into his heart...something was not right here...he glanced over at Professor McGonagall and saw his own confusion reflected back in her eyes.

"I have a few last-minute points to dish out," Dumbledore said. "Let me see. Yes…first, to Mr. Ronald Weasley. For the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."

Snape found himself gripping the hand rests to his chair with all his might. This could not be...it simply _could not_ be...Slytherin had won the House Cup for six years in a row now...Snape had _so_ enjoyed it...his one, single happy day in all the year...and now Dumbledore was taking even _this_ pleasure away from him…

He watched as the points piled up, gluing his tortured eyes to the great Gryffindor Hourglass that stood at the end of the Hall.

"...there are all kinds of courage," Dumbledore was saying. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."

 _Seriously? Dumbledore was awarding points to that worthless gob of flobberworm mucus?_ Snape watched, aghast, as Neville was engulfed by a mass of red and gold-clad fellow Gryffindors. He then flipped his gaze back to the Gryffindor hourglass. His stomach turned over...rubies were falling into Gryffindor's glass, and _it plainly held more than Slytherin's._

Snape was stricken. He could not believe it. That idiot, good-for-nothing boy who melted a cauldron and was sent to the Hospital Wing on his first day of class, showing himself to be nothing but trouble ever since, had just won Gryffindor the House Cup.

As painful second by painful second passed by, he gradually became aware that the decorations had changed, morphing from Slytherin's serpent to Gryffindor's lion, and that Professor McGonagall had her hand outstretched. It took a moment for him to recognize that she wanted him to shake it. He did so, feeling revulsion well up in him...unable to bear looking into her face, he gazed out into the crowd...and what did he see but his memory brought vividly to life, a boy surrounded by a sea of scarlet and gold, holding a golden trophy, exultant…and suddenly, the boy looked up and they met eyes. The boy did not look away. Defiance shone from his emerald eyes. And that expression blazed on the boy's features woke up something in Snape.

As though from far away, he felt his numb fingers fall away from McGonagall's hand...felt himself striding to the center of the stage, where Dumbledore stood, a benign smile stretched over his features. He was a tyrant, Snape realized. A man who loved to get his own way, a man who enjoyed power. _He was in every way but fact Voldemort himself._

This thought pushed him forward, step by step, until he was standing in front of Dumbledore and Dumbledore could not help but acknowledge him. The two men met eyes.

"Excuse me, Professor Dumbledore," said Snape in his silkiest tones, "but I have a few last minute points to dish out as well."

 _It would be most unlike Dumbledore to protest,_ Snape thought, and indeed Dumbledore did not. Without his expression changing in the least, he gave a slow deliberate nod of the head and motioned for Snape to proceed.

Snape opened his mouth. It fell foolishly shut as he gazed out over a tumultuous crowd, screaming, yelling, dancing, hugging, kissing in celebration. How could he ever hope to get their attention?

His hand swiftly darted into his robes and produced his wand. Quickly pointing it at his throat, he murmured: _Sonorus._

"Students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he said, his voice booming out, magically magnified, "I have an announcement to make…"

But it was no use. He might have well have had the light, high-pitched, and barely audible voice of a bowtruckle for all the notice that was given him. His voice, as loud as it was, could not make itself heard over the chaotic over-a-hundred-decibel noise going on below him. He stared hopelessly as the separate masses of gold and scarlet, blue and bronze, and yellow and black converged, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs becoming one multi-coloured mix. Everyone was celebrating the downfall of Slytherin. And there was nothing Snape could do about it. _Nothing._

Finally accepting his defeat, Snape turned on his heel and departed from the Hall, his midnight-black cloak billowing behind him.

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